


Fine Wine

by Lovelettes



Series: Generation's Metronome [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovelettes/pseuds/Lovelettes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The string of lovers you possess in your adulthood are predominantly older, but you tend to play the field just to spice it up. You find that the younger lays are generally all about the destination, not the journey, and so you don't frequent them often. Not when there's an entire world filled with a generation of their seasoned, available counterparts.</p><p>Mature men and women are like fine wine. Better with age.</p><p>You wandered into a joke shop in Seattle due to a small bout of curiosity but five minutes ago, and you quickly discover that it was an excellent decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Another BroNanna fic that's unrelated to the The Girl in the Television universe. It was _suppose_ to be PWP but then I got wordy.

You've always preferred the company the older, more knowledgeable generation to your own. They had more. More interesting stories. More life experience. More to give. Charming. Elegant. Better lovers.

You're unsure what exactly led you to discover this particularly preference, but if you think about long enough, you would wager a guess that it all started in high school with a particularly attractive Algebra II teacher. He was a distinguished gentleman with salt-n-pepper hair, a careful, sophisticated accent, and an ass that was begging you to grab two handfuls.

For the entire year, you sat in misery in that classroom, biting you lip and sighing like a schoolgirl at the man, wishing and wanting. He was an intellectual, and that only fueled your attraction to him. After all, what was beauty without brains and depth? A boring, hollow shell is what.

Sophomore year was filled with detailed fantasies and “what ifs.” There wasn't a day that went by that you didn't entertain the thought of clearing his desk with one sweep of your arm and pulling him down atop of you to ravage the uncharted territory that was your awkward teenage body.

But daydreams were daydreams, not reality. Never reality. Nothing but an idle thought rattling in your head until your senior year. Until your senior year when you discovered that your calculus teacher was the same man that was the star of your wet dreams for a year.

You plotted, created a master plan, and your poor, unsuspecting calculus teacher was none the wiser. You became a bit of a teacher's pet—not that that was a bad thing, not at all—and earned the trust of your target. You learned a lot about him, became genuinely interested in his private life, in the custody battle he was in with his ex-wife, in the a particular jazz band he enjoyed, in his philosophies, in the science fiction novel he was writing.

Come graduation day, when all was said and done with, you showed up at his humble abode with a bottle of wine that you had bought with a fake identification card. He chided you for having done so but didn't object to having a glass himself.

You remember waking up in the morning curled into his side with a sore ass, bruises on your hips, and the thick air of satisfaction. You could have cried out of sheer joy.

The affair lasted long into the summer until it was time for you to depart for college. You bid him a day-long farewell, leaving him plenty to remember you by.

In college, you met a slew of professors of varying ages, most of which were attractive. You had flings with several, both men and women, but still had enough time to turn in well-written essays. You prided yourself on your organizational skills. Still do.

The string of lovers you possess in your adulthood are predominantly older, but you tend to play the field just to spice it up. You find that the younger lays are generally all about the destination, not the journey, and so you don't frequent them often. Not when there's an entire world filled with a generation of their seasoned, available counterparts.

Mature men and women are like fine wine. Better with age.

You wandered into a joke shop in Seattle due to a small bout of curiosity but five minutes ago, and you quickly discover that it was an excellent decision.

With a business license, impressive sewing skills, and an Associate's in cinematography, you had built a modest business in the illicit, ever-popular pornography industry. Your reasons for visiting Washington were equipment-based, and while you were out of Texas for a bit, you decided to make it into a small vacation.

Day two of your adventure in the Evergreen State led you to Prankster's Gambit by pure chance. And here you stand, eyes locked on a woman dashing about the shop in all of her casual charm and evident felicity, mind set to engage her.

As you approached, you discovered that you had made an excellent decision. She was more than attractive—gorgeous would be a much better description you amend—with skin delicate and tinted by a natural flush, black hair, silver streaked with age, cropped short with precise almost symmetrical layers, and a soft, voluptuous figure.

The mystery woman of a certain age was reaching up, attempting to reach a container of fake mustaches on the top shelf. Seeing your opening, you draw a little closer.

“Allow me,” you say with all the politeness that a strapping young man like yourself can muster.

You lean over her before she gets the chance to move away, lightly pressing against her backside as you remove the box from the top shelf with ease. She turns around as you hand her the box, and her cheeks turn a pretty pink as she realizes that the two of you are intimately spaced. From this distance, you can see that the eyes hiding behind the oval-shaped spectacles resting on her nose are a vivid blue, round, youthful, and framed by thick black lashes. Her lips, painted a pale pink, part in negligible astonishment.

“Thank you,” she says. Coolly arching a brow, she inquires, “Mr...?”

“Mr. Strider. Mr. Dirk Strider.” You place one of your more genuine smiles in place and deliberately present your left hand to her, your arm bent at a strange angle due to your closeness. “Nice to meet you, Ms...?”

She takes your hand, her grip surprisingly firm. You notice that there is lack of a wedding ring on her finger. You give her a little more space so as not to make her too uncomfortable, smiling inwardly. “Egbert. Jane Egbert, owner of the shop.”

“Owner?” you say, and the surprise in your voice is real. You seize this opportunity, your brain devising five thousand ways to approach this conversation. “Ah, a woman of _business_. You know, I'm an entrepreneur myself.”

Her eyebrows raise in disbelief. You have a feeling that she doesn't quite believe you. “Really? What do you dabble in, Mr. Strider?”

“I have a small online business where I sell films and various handmade paraphernalia.” It's the truth, if a bit revised and censored. “That's why I'm in town. I went yesterday to see a guy about upgrading my camera and sound equipment. Decided to stay 'lil bit longer.”

“I didn't think you sounded local.” The box begins slipping from under her arm where it was wedged. “Let—whoops—let me guess. Texas?” She manages to save the box from falling to the floor.

“Yes, ma'am,” you confirm, purposefully making your drawl just a tad bit more prominent. “And like a Texan gentleman—” You gingerly take the box from her. “—allow me to take this off your hands.”

“How nice.” Jane smiles. “But I am perfectly capable of carrying one measly box myself.” She lifts the package from your hands. “If you'd like to be of use to me, take that other box up there, the one with the magic cards, and follow me to the back room.”

Jane gives you a lingering look from beneath her eyelashes, a small smirk dimpling her cheek. She turns on her heels and walks away, hips swaying sensually.

A chill runs through your spine as you watch her go. Older, intelligent individuals with a nice body. Older, intelligent, _self-made_ individuals with a perfect ass. She fits your type to a _T_.

You snatch the box of cards, finding it heavier than the previous box, and follow her to the back, presumably storage, room.

The space is enclosed, dimmer, private. You briefly wonder if Jane had picked up on your intentions and was happily accelerating the path to your goal.

You find her among the stacks and shelves, and you're patient. She instructs you to place the box on a particular shelf and to come to her. You do both with ease, standing before her in anticipation. She stares at you expectantly, and you suddenly feel young, so young.

A hand touches your cheek, cupping it, while the others fingers run across your jawline. You bend just a bit over her, bracing your forearms on the shelves behind her, boxing her in.

“Well?” she says, and there's a lack of a nervous edge to her voice that makes you nervous.

“You've done this before,” you observe.

Jane flutters her eyelashes in contrived innocence. “I don't know what you mean, Mr. Strider.”

A hand runs down your abdomen, nails dragging along your stomach. A twist of desire and nerves settles deep in your core. More often than not, you're the one with experience in the area of casual flings.

You run a thumb across her lips, skin catching on the sticky texture of her lipstick. “A woman after my own heart,” you say, leaning down to meet her waiting lips.

Her arms wind themselves around your neck, pulling you down closer to her, kissing you a bit harder than you expected. Your hands grip her hips, tugging her lower half to press against yours. Your hands wander, up and down, fingers tracing her waist and hipbones before coming to splay across her ass.

Jane, you discover quite quickly, is aggressive. Your lips part, and she takes this opening to slip her tongue in your mouth. Her hands run up your neck, knocking the cap from your head, fingers entangled tightly in your hair.

You can't keep up with her, and it's fucking _awesome_. It's not often that one of your partners can manage to wrench the power away.

Your glasses clack together uncomfortably when Jane turns her head a certain way, so you push your shades up to rest atop your head. She follows your cue, ridding herself of her glasses before pushing her body flush against you.

You're getting riled, to put it mildly, with Jane and her boldness, her touches, her confidence. You press into her, half-hard and skin radiating the heat of the small star, earning a sharp intake of breath from her. Her back arches, her chest pushing against yours, lips working more frantically.

You break the kiss and meet her eyes. Her face is flushed, lips shining with a mixture of both her saliva and yours, eyes half-lidded, breath coming hard and fast. You smirk at her before your face dives into the crook of her neck, placing hot kisses along the pale surface, lips, teeth, and tongue sucking and nipping and soothing.

A particularly loud moan spills from her lips just before she pushes you back. You raise your head from the hollow of her neck, expression contorting in confusion, and find that Jane is looking past you. You follow her gaze back towards the stacks, eyes settling an impeccably dressed man with the same blue gaze as Jane's.

“Mother?” he calls. “There are some customers inquiring about the fake nose-and-glasses set. Didn't a new shipment just arrive yesterday.”

Jane straightens, and your shoulders slump. She clears her throat, moving past you. You think that you have her lipstick smeared across your mouth, but you lack the cognitive ability to wipe it off. Having the blood leave your brain does that to you.

She says, “I'm pretty sure we did. They're probably in the box behind the counter.”

“Ah.” Her son eyes you suspiciously. “I'm sorry that I interrupted you, then.”

“Oh, no. You didn't.” She gestures towards you. “I was just talking to Mr. Strider here. Mr. Strider, this is my son James.”

You slide your shades back in place. “Nice to meet ya.”

James scans you up and down, a glint of censure in his baby blues. His words are clipped. “Same to you, Mr. Strider.”

“You should be going now,” Jane tells you. “You're only in town for a little while I gather, and there's so much to see of Seattle!”

She navigates through the storage room, grabbing James by the wrist and tugging him along, leaving you alone and suffering from the beginnings of blue balls.

And just like that, it's over. Done with. It's as if the director of this porno yelled “cut” and all of the stars just shuffled off to clean themselves and rethink their life decisions. You're annoyed.

Seems like your life is just one big interrupted porno.

**== >**

You visit Prankster's Gambit the next day, the day after, and the day after that. Each time, you find yourself foiled by James's untimely entrances. You're becoming increasingly frustrated—in more ways than one—as the days pass. Time is running out, and you decide that today is the day. Now or never.

You're planning on _now_.

After careful prodding and subtle suggestions, you plan a time and a place with Jane. Her place, whatever time.

You decide that the time is _now_.

There's something absolutely magnetic about Jane Egbert. She's bewitching and magnetic. Youthful in personality yet exudes maturity and displays her quick wit.

The chase makes it all the more thrilling.

Not that it is much of a chase, no. No, Jane has made it quite clear that she's interested in a fling with a passing stranger, but the time never seems to be right. Time is an old enemy of yours, and you intend to defeat it.

You knock on a picturesque suburban home. Flowers in the window sill, curtains neatly tied back from the windows, welcome mat neatly placed in front of the door. You remember your apartment back in Texas and think that you could fix it up a little. 

You frown and dismiss the thought. You live alone. There's no reason to tidy anything.

You knock on the door confidently, straightening your back, a smile on your lips waiting to emerge. The door is opened, and you find yourself staring at the face of the younger Egbert.

You decide to play it coolly. “'Sup, James?”

“Can I help you, Mr. Strider?” It's evident that he does not want you here. It amuses you.

You shrug and suppress a smirk. “I'm here to see your mom. We have date. House date. I thought you had work to go to or something?”

James's gaze lingers on you awhile longer. He sighs and steps aside. “I do.”

“Because you're a productive citizen and not an asshole,” you say as you brush past him. You can't hide the teasing undertone that seeps into your words.

He picks up his brief case and adjusts his tie with a single hand. “I'd rather be of use on this Earth rather than be a blemish on it.” He fastidiously removes a white fedora from the hat rack by the door, gingerly resting it atop his head. “Good day, Mr. Strider.”

You uncross your arms to give him a two-finger salute that he proceeds to ignore. His lips become a fine line as he turns away, leaving you alone in a spacious living room.

Your ear catches the sound of footsteps. You turn to its source, finding Jane standing in the doorway to what appeared to be the kitchen. A bottle of wine is in one hand, a tray of cupcakes in another.

“Did James just leave?” she asks you, forgoing pleasantries.

“Just left for work a second ago.” You begin approaching her, consciously keeping your steps long and slow. “I guess that means that we're finally alone.”

She's wearing a sundress that flatters her immensely. It's as blue as her eyes, a robin's egg, and exposes her pale shoulders. Jane turns her back to you, dress rippling around her. She glances over her shoulder, the corner of her lip curling in a coquettish way.

Her voice drops a couple of suggestive notes. “In that case, would you like to join me in the kitchen, Mr. Strider?”

“Love to.”

She's out of sight before you make it to the doorway. You note that she's light on her feet.

As you turn into the kitchen, you find yourself met with an unpleasant surprise.

Several unpleasant surprises.

Because you've been met with a tray of cupcakes to the face.

A tray of cupcakes.

To the face.

The tray clatters to the floor, leaving the icing sticking to your nose, your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, your shades, your _everywhere_. It clumps your hair, and a stray cake slides down across the front of your shirt.

And Jane is absolutely _dying_.

“I can't believe you— _hoo hoo hoo!_ I'm just—I can't br...breathe!”

You remove your shades to see her holding her sides, doubling over. Her face is cracked in half with the biggest grin you've ever witnessed, and laughter keeps falling out of her mouth.

“I own a joke shop! Did you think I was some hag who didn't like messing with people?” She braces herself on the counter, burying her face in the crook of her arm.

You frown at her, but inwardly, you think that it was pretty amazing that she caught you off-guard like that. “Cool it, nanna!” you warn her.

Jane lifts her head, laughter still coming in waves. “Watch it, bro!”

You hate to admit that you like this woman.

**== >**

Jane let you use her shower, and as revenge, you take an extra long one, sampling several of the scented soaps and shampoos.

When you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out, the cold air of the conditioner hitting your bare body. Jane is waiting for you, delicately poised on the edge of her bed with a smile creeping into her expression.

You're only wearing a towel, and she's still in her dress. You decide to make this situation just a bit more fair.

You lean over Jane, running a hand through her hair, fingers trailing down her face and skirting down her body. She reaches up to kiss you, her own fingers curling into your damp hair, just as you tug at the hem of her dress.

She breaks away, pushing your hair from your face. “I like it better slicked back.”

You smile in reply, gently pushing her down onto the bed before lifting the dress from her body.

Your lips meet again, heat building between your bodies. It isn't long before she rolls you over, settling her body atop of yours.

You have a feeling that you're in for quite a ride.

**== >**

You shut your eyes tight, a soft groan escaping your lips. You're not one to make a lot of noise, but Jane somehow knows how to draw them out. You crack open your eyes to watch her. Jane grins in a mischievous manner and begins to kiss her way up your chest, breasts brushing against you as she works. You watch your sternum rising and falling intermittently underneath her skilled tongue, fascinated by the effect she has on you.. She presses wet kisses to your skin, and you think that maybe you shouldn't have taken that shower so soon.

Jane settles over your hips, ass hovering above your erection. A small chuckle seeps from her throat just before she lowers her hips onto you, grinding herself on your swollen cock. You breath catches, and your head tilts back ever so slightly.

She slips you inside of her, biting down on your shoulder all in perfect unison. You grunt, your hands gripping her hips hard. She's hot, slick, and wonderful, and you're struggling to control the unconscious movement of your hips.

"Fuck," you gasp, back arching, pushing yourself even further into her.

Jane grips your shoulder, lifting her hips before easing back down. A rhythm of pants, kisses, bites, and thrusts is built, steadily becoming faster and more hurried as the clock ticks away. You gain the leverage to thrust up into her and do just that, the immodest sound of your skin slapping hers filling your ears with something suspiciously similar to a goddamn chorus of angels.

Methodically and tortuously slow she grinds against you in small circles. She moans at the sensation and laughs at the impatience in your face as she continues at an agonizingly crawling pace.

“Please,” you plead, and you can feel your self-respect dropping.

Jane decides that you've suffered enough and picks up the pace, grinding turning into rocking, rocking into bouncing. You choke on your gasps and try to keep up with her.

Your hands glide up her back, press into her ass, running up her ribs to fondle her breasts. You're breathing becomes harsh, and soon you're wheezing into her hair, jerking harder and harder into her, losing your beat.

She shudders, steeling herself against you as she climaxes. Her tight grip rips a particularly loud moan out of your throat, the edges of your vision turning white. Jane lifts herself off you, sliding down to wrap her fingers around your cock. Her hand moves quickly and precisely, and as you reach your peak, scraps of obscure information is pushed to forefront of your brain in flashes, fragments of Shakespeare coming back.

You lay next to each other, watching her as you attempt to regain control of your breathing. Her eyes open, and for a moment, they search yours for something. You're unsure of what that something is.

But Jane just smiles at you, and you smile back, pushing away all other thoughts.

The rest is silence.

**== >**

The next time you enter the Egbert household, you find that the door is rigged with the old bucket of water prank, and, like a dumbass, you fall for it.

Jane snickers at how foolish you look drenched, but she strips you of your clothes nevertheless and pulls you into her bedroom.

You spend the day rolling around in her sheets like a couple of smitten teenagers.

**== >**

With two days left of your vacation, you take her out on a date. A legitimate date at a legitimate restaurant where you have perfectly adult conversations and behave in a perfectly adult manner.

Until dessert arrives, that is.

**== >**

James walks in on the two of you on your last day with her, and he's understandably upset. You laugh at his embarrassed visage and by how quickly he exited the room, quickly throwing together an excuse for barging in. It's laden with _excuse me_ s and _sorry_ s with a muttered swear that seemed uncharacteristic tacked on the end.

Jane is unamused and leaves you to find him.

**== >**

You're leaving today, and you don't want to. You're afraid of admitting it, but somewhere during the week, you _may_ have caught feelings for Jane.

You don't tell her this, but you do tell her that you'd like to keep contact.

“We could do, I don't know, video chats? Email each other or some shit. I just...I don't really want to leave you alone.” You don't say that it's _you_ that doesn't want to be alone.

“I'm not alone, Mr. Strider,” she says. “You're not the first, and you won't be the last.”

It hurt just a little bit.

“And it's the same for you, isn't it?” she continues. “I know I'm not the first woman you've had bouts of passion with. There will be plenty of girls, plenty of women out there wanting you.”

“Plenty of men too,” you add, actively pushing out the acidic tone in your voice.

Jane smiles. “You'll find the one. The one that makes me you happy. The one that can give you what you deserve. I can't do that, Mr. Strider. Not now. Not after my husband passed.”

You rub your neck. You're feeling ungraceful and a bit oafish. “You know...I...” You clear your throat. “...I think you can find someone again. They might be already there in front of you, asking you to let them in, acting like a hella awkward motherfucker.”

Jane blinks slowly, comprehending your words. When she finally speaks, it's a simple sentence, one that has cursed you, made you doubt yourself. “You're a kid.”

“So I've been told. Many, many times.” You take her hand into yours, bending to place a chaste kiss on the back of it. You peer at her from atop your shades, smiling just a little bit. “It's been a pleasure, Ms. Egbert.”

“Likewise, Mr. Strider.”

**== >**

You slam into a distinguished-looking older gentleman outside a gas station in Texas. He's tall and broad-chested with a deep tan and a handlebar mustache.

“Sorry, man. Didn't see ya there,” you apologize.

“It's quite all right. An adventurer such as myself can handle a little bump now and again. Are you all right?” he inquires in an accent that you think may be English.

“I'm pretty fuckin' perfect right about now.” You smile at him, the fine-oiled gears of your brain cranking away. “Dirk Strider,” you say. And then you hold out your left hand.

His grip is all-encompassing and comforting. There's no wedding band on his ring finger.

“I'm Jake Harley,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you, my dear boy.”

The corners of your mouth lift.

**Author's Note:**

> And then they fucked.
> 
> Oops.
> 
> [My tumblr.](http://lovelettes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
